


Round and Round

by ARandomRock



Category: Naruto, 牧場物語2 | Harvest Moon 64
Genre: Gen, Harvest Moon AU, Music Box Event, No Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 11:31:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19789993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARandomRock/pseuds/ARandomRock
Summary: [Harvest Moon x Naruto Zine] Kabuto returns to an old play area to dig up a sacred box of memories. Yet, with it's small rusted chimes came the choice of how to handle ones past.





	Round and Round

**Author's Note:**

> https://harvestnaruto.tumblr.com/

Painted as if the sunset had melted over the farm, the stillness of the autumn wind made infiltrating the farm… fun. Fun, yes, not challenging.The leaves refused to rustle and the dog kept running circles instead of returning to it’s kettle. Pushing up glasses to correct, pulling across the wooden wall until the shadow of the great oak enveloped him. Leaning back against the wall, the doctor took just a second to breathe. The tree’s leaves, the way each one still struggling to cling on the branches. Each golden thread wrapping around him, connecting him to his past, to what he wanted. His entire being once forgotten, needed to be dug up. If not for his partner, but for his own selfish wants.

A loud whistle sprang out from the eastern side of the farm, the patterns of dog paws came to a silence with a fat poof. Vaguely he could hear the muffled laughs behind a shut door. Something in the stillness made him want to just take it in for a bit longer. Where was the laughter and experiments that once would envelope this town because of the pair of them? Different faces, different beasts, yet still you could just swap them, in some fashion.

This is why when the intruder vaulted the stone wall, to the tree, the thrown kunai did not just enter and break open part of the bark, but shattered it wide open. Old wounds torn open as finger less gloved hands wormed through, pinching a compact, tightly wrapped scroll. There was a small quiver in his blood upon retrieval but the stand was sharp as a scalpel and as decisive. The wound on the tree, was not visible by the front but looked, frankly, disastrous. There was nothing natural about it, nor could his own institution allow that to continue.

As such, his role had to double as tree surgeon and handled it very gently. Small flecks of chakra, unfocused and spilling to the side encased his hands as he held his hands flat vetcallally. Thumbs tucked in, finger nails almost tearing at his skin. Striking with the tips of his fingers the edges of the wound. Wearing his chakra through each of the shards and shatters of wood. The weaving was messy, misaligned by mere centimeters. Enough that a passing medical-nin would be able to scold the peruptaor for sloppy work. But not enough for his own mind. The golden threads of the sunlight were penetrating more than just leaves.

Enough of the mess was cleaned that only the bark was left on the floor. Which gave any human eye worthy evidence of tampering. Perhaps since the indent faced westwards that nobody would even catch the impections. Yet a part of this was taking back control of oneself. Take instead of observe, to indulge and come to terms with more than simply pass. The scroll was not only a key but a barrier to pass. Even though unravelling it on the other side of the wall only revealed a crudely drawn map, hastily written over were instructions for turnips pointed out precise instructions on what to find. The gravitas was enough to make him pull up his over shirt above his mouth, push back his glasses and just give the headband a pull.

t had appeared though the diagram did not quite match the new farm layout and it was now up to him to venture through the cabbage patches himself, even if the grid of crops still remained, the small scripples of “3 turnips” was now meaningful. Potatoes for multiple squares and rows had become a three by three grids. This posed a bit of an issues for the intruder, as he has to try guess work where such thing was buried. Yet, the Chunin’s greatest enemy, the fallen branch, had given him an idea. Taking to turn on the reverse side of the wall, sheared the stick to match the width of the turnip. Creeping back across the western end, by the tree, he began to use the stick to measure. Stabbing a small hole at the end of each measurement. Following the treasure scroll to the deep black cross.

Yet, the supposed “mark” was now covered by a fat turnip. One could hesitantly call it a  _ prize _ . Round, shiny and filling both lenses of his glasses. The medical-nin had not wanted to walk into keyhole surgery at this point. Taking a glance around, the horse’s saddle bags were too far away and stabled. The shipping container was already overfilled to the point where the latch was strained. It was not like he could slice and dice it on the field. Instead it would have to be another drain on chakra with the trowel. Trying to hold steady, reorganising his fingers for a better grip, the blue chakra now was concise, delicate and neat. It sunk through the soil with the towel, the intruder’s hand barely having any movement until a small chink was hit.

Retrieving it slowly and moving the small cubed object out, the intruder moved his other hand with a kunai and placed through the ground. Picking through, pinging for small gaps in the soil trying to create a tunnel. Eyes fixed firmly on the turnip’s small shakes and wobbles, the brush of roots against his chakra. Each rotation of the trowl to burrow horizontally made with a beat in between. The slight resistance of the dirt, the odd stone that hung in the way. Not quite keyhole surgery on the battlefield with his chakra but his blood and hairs that stood on end would equate it so.

What was finally released out and clutch to the intruders chest was a small box. Ornately decorated with snakes, either notes and even tiny leaf symbols. Stained with dried mud, blood and memories, the small handle of its side was rusted and weak. Succumbing to the dirt himself, his knees hit the ground for a few moments. Taking in the next barrier that had to be wound through.

The small handle of the box however, appeared to be rusted stiff when the dirt stained medicial-nin attempted to wind it. The insides clinked quietly as if the interior was trying it’s hardest to rotate around. Standing up, he still cradling the music box in arms, the prize turnip was gently knocked by the heel of the escaping intruder, who took just a fleeting glance at the tree before heading away from orange to green.

The box sat for days as a paperweight. Cleaned but no longer catching the light like it used to. The clinic, empty, even the assistant was dismissed. Silence, only sat between him and the box. Fix it? What good would that too, a promise with a friend, the spying and notes. The journals that it held down from the bustles of wind were just as much of a entrapment as the box itself. He wanted to be self reliant, just as the that blonde haired farmer boy would, who could just walk into his lineage and grip it by the saddle. The turnips that they would steal when they were younger, the promises made while tossing torn cabbage leaves around that tree. The music box was the testament to that.

Destroy it?

That would be erasing the lessons learnt. Identity and relationships have to be learned, honed with time. Climbing up the trees by the river, spying on the lumberjack’s cabin, snacking on berries. Silently watching who was stock piling logs and stone. Who was building what, who was adding to the collection, what new training equipment was being crafted. That was where he learnt and honed the “nin” part of medical-nin. Field training done under the shadows and infiltrating. Drunken messes at the bar, cracking information on the horses to see where the money will fall on. All those memories were not just connected to the the other half who blessed the music box, but himself.

It had taken sending the assistant out for an errand and several days of avoiding their questions surrounding the box before the choice was made. Choosing the clinic early and leaf with hood up and swirled around with music box bundled under.the cloak. Underneath the other side a box wrapped up, slightly warm but decorated with soft strawberry patterns, enamored with a giant iron fan crest across the top of the box. The person in choice for the delivery was giant double width log cabin with struts of metal in between the dull tiled roof.

Inside, playing with a mannequin on the side was hooded with two ears figure greeted the doctor with inquisitive smile and question on his arrive. The prized blue feather sat still on desk but now finally with “sold” on it with a small scrawling of “H” left on it with a big scrawled date on there. Catching the Doctor’s gaze at it’s details, the puppet man could with a splatters of dirt but still as vibrant facial markings as always. Blushing away, he simply wished the new couple well but instead questioned the man for the music box himself. Gently placed on the table, almost caressing it on the way down, his eyes focused underneath his glasses when the puppet-master touched it.

The small crunch made when the fixer turned the handle made the hands clench of the leaning doctor, trying to keep his face as stiff as possible. He could be cold to a bleed out, could be cold to a spine that felt a horse’s hoof but that crunch send icicles down every spinal disc. The fixer raised an eyebrow picking up on the movement, but kept examining the box and stuck his head underneath his desk. The small ears of his hood moving back and forth with the clunks of metal. He appeared later and clasped his fingers together. Eyes locked, chin on hands, elbow on the desk.

Before he could even make an offer, the box with the fan decoration on was placed in front of him. The fixer's head turned and eyebrows did awave in approval. Complimenting on the doctor for always being a step ahead and knowing every detail in the town. Sure, he quoted. Shutting the fan to open the box, the metal spelling shack was now sweetened. Fresh icing beat out the drips of oil in the background. With a nod, a wave and a smacked lip, the deal was done. Red robe flicked around as a statement the doctor hid away. Leaving behind the fixer to quickly discard the music box and drag the cake in front of him. Eyes popping at the taste.

So what happened to that memory box, buried in childhood, dug up in adulthood? It sits on a junk pile. To be buried again or given to another child. Played once when the Doctor came back to see the finish one, the Doctor had swiftly given back and the music box and left. It had sounded just like the snake’s voice as it always did and with it servitude and studying. No, this was his clinic, and what he had in his office with his assistant was his and his own. 

It wasn’t until enough years later that the memory of what had happened in the past were just becoming a hazy grey that a small child who had been sick from a bug sting was sitting with his friend. On the raw hospital bed, his friend had brought him fresh vegetables and flowers to cover the “poison smell” of medical cleanliness. Every day between school and helping, they were there nattering away, telling them the developments of the explorations around the lumberjack’s house. There, just then between their leaning exploration the Doctor looked at the kid about to leave with his friend and parent in hand where just for a moment, a single moment. The tune of music box played through the clinic. 


End file.
